


Dust is Eloquent

by ItWasANecessaryTragedy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drugs, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Loneliness, References to Depression, References to Drugs, References to Torture, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 07:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20287435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItWasANecessaryTragedy/pseuds/ItWasANecessaryTragedy
Summary: For instance, it tells him that he tends to use the right end of the sofa most often, that there is a draft that sweeps up and out of the huge window, sucking tiny motes away into the sky. It tells him how no one has opened the door to his flat for coming up to five days now, just under a millimetre of dust undisturbed on the floorboards and settled on the top of the door, gathered on the handle.But Sherlock knew that already.





	Dust is Eloquent

Sentiment. Men like him know the dangers.

The mug is chipped. It is sat on the wood of the table, sunlight glancing off of it and into the dust.

Dust is eloquent. For instance, it tells him that he tends to use the right end of the sofa most often, that there is a draft that sweeps up and out of the huge window, sucking tiny motes away into the sky. It tells him how no one has opened the door to his flat for coming up to five days now, just under a millimetre of dust undisturbed on the floorboards and settled on the top of the door, gathered on the handle. 

But Sherlock knew that already.

It isn't that he's lonely. That isn't it.

Then again, he thinks, as he takes a sip of cold tea out of the chipped mug, the first time he ever felt lonely, he'd only noticed when it ended, thirty years later.

This makes sense. Machines don't understand emotions.

_ Machines don't have emotions either_, murmurs some stifled part of him, but he swallows it down with the tea.

As he stands up, spine cracking, arms reaching out into the dust, the old scars stretch and twang on his back, the tightness in his shoulder blades reminding him again of his own failures. He hadn't ever told a soul of this, and Mycroft only knew by circumstance. Always interfering.

Sometimes he wishes Mycroft told the others at the very start, so he wouldn't have to build the courage up himself.

Unfortunately that's not how the story goes, and there is a chasm of silence between himself and everyone from his life Before. They don't seem to mind, so he refuses to. He has never been very good at needing other people.

No, to specify, he thinks, heading to the dark space underneath his bed, he was always good at needing others, horrifically good. He is just abysmal at all the other bits that come with that.

He brings it into the living room, the box that is. It has a very long needle that glints in the sun, but doesn't throw the light back out. Good. He doesn't need to see the dust.

Mrs Hudson is away to see her sister. She means to be gone another week. So that leaves Sherlock here alone, writing out the list of what he is going to take. It will probably not be read by anyone's eyes but his own, yet the shape of the familiar words will be reassuring.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old piece that I found while searching through my documents. It's not what I usually write, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! It is set in some nebulous season three and four period. I just really wanted to get into Sherlock's head when he decided to start using again.


End file.
